


nobody ever called my name

by acidquill



Category: Supernatural, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidquill/pseuds/acidquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thief and a conman walk into, make that walk out of, a bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	nobody ever called my name

**Author's Note:**

> written for slashfest Round V. set pre-series, just before Dean shows up in Palo Alto. title from Bukowski. liberties taken with timelines & the French language. originally posted Jun 14 2007.

Dean can count the times he's been to New Orleans on one hand. He remembers the last time - back in '01 - tracking a nest of will 'o wisps down by the levees. Sammy'd still been with them then. Sulky and bitchy as hell maybe, but with them. Now it's just Dean.  
  
John's sent him to check out some voodoo business - someone or something twisting spells until even the locals are spooked. Dean doesn't like splitting up, but the old man said _go_ , and Dean doesn't like disobeying his dad any more than not working a case together. He hits the road early one morning; his dad sees him off with a slap on the back and the perpetual 'Be careful, son." Dean tries not to think about how often the two of them have gone their separate ways lately.  
  
Two days later he pulls off the highway and grabs a room at one of the cheap motels outside the city. The job shouldn't take that long. He'll be done and on the road again in a few days, four or five tops for the round trip. He's not all that eager to spend more time than he has to in New Orleans anyway.  
  
Dean's never said it where anyone could hear him, but he doesn't like this town. Not really. It's loud enough, damn near crazy enough, that he should feel safe, or at least protected by the surrounding weirdness. It's not like the cities farther north, or the quaint little towns out west where asking questions and hanging around grave yards raises red flags. Down here, as long as you don't set something on fire, you're pretty well covered. But no matter how hard he tries, Dean can never shake the feeling of sinking. Like one day he'll look down and see his boots disappearing into the ground.

 

He's always been good at gauging time. Job's over in three days, research, clean up, and all. Dean figures his dad's already wrapped up the poltergeist in Franklin. He calls to give John the head's up that he's finished too and gets nothing. No Dad, not even the recording for his voice-mail.

Dean's not going to worry. His dad doesn't keep his phone on half the time; hell, the man probably left it in the motel room while he took care of that haunting over in Jasper. After all, John had said they were meeting up before they headed to California, going to check out a string of disappearances near Jericho, maybe check up on Sammy while they were at it. His dad's just too busy with the hunt to pick up the phone; it's not like he would take off without Dean. Dean'll try him again later.

 

The best thing about _Nawlins_ , Dean decides, is the liquor. He bar hops across half the city and ends up somewhere deep in the French Quarter. John's almost two weeks overdue. Dean's not panicking. He's not. But if he happens to get blind drunk and forgets even being a Winchester for a while, Dean will _not_ panic a lot easier. So he orders two more beers and a round of some shit that sounds like it should come with a warning label. Figures that will bring his blood alcohol level up past 'everything's a little fuzzy', heading towards 'really don't give a damn.'  
  
Now if he could find the right - there he was. Sitting at one of the tables in the back, smoke curling around his face. He watches the man break the seal on a pack of cards, shuffle, and lay out two hands of poker. It's been a while since Dean's bothered with a guy, hasn't seemed worth the hassle. Girls were easier. Smile at 'em a little, buy a drink or three and most of the time he was guaranteed a night-long good time. Worked for the girl, worked for him, everybody went home happy. Dudes were...well hell, they were just plain tricky. Dean liked his fucking straightforward. He didn't want to dance around all night deciding if Slim over there wanted to get his dick sucked or not. Thing was, that guy there at the table, Dean had a pretty good idea he liked straightforward too.  
  
Dean walks over. The man leans back in his chair, eases the cigarette out of his mouth.  
  
"What took you so long _mon ami_?"

 

Turns out the guy's name is Remy. He's a native, been away too long and decided to stop back home before he headed up North on some business. Dean's not stupid, he knows there's a hell of a lot more to it than that, but it's not like he doesn't tell his own variation of the same story. It's not until they're outside, under a street light that Dean gets a good look at the guy’s eyes and realises he might have let his dick get the better of him. Remy laughs a little when Dean mutters _Christo_. He pulls on a trench coat and slaps Dean's ass.  
  
"Been called de devil before, but not quite like that. No worries _monsieur chasseur_ , I was born wit dese." He nods. "Like this."  
  
Dean knows enough French to realise Remy's made him. _Hunter_. But he can tell that 'like this' might as well be his own 'it's a family business.' As close to the truth as either of them get. Dean can live with that. The important parts are Remy wants him, he wants Remy, and there's a motel room down the street with both of their names on it. Dean figures right now, that's all he needs.

 

Dean wakes up the next morning with a hangover and a deck of cards on the pillow beside him. He gets dressed and slips the cards into his pocket. Time to start acting like a Winchester again.  
  
He leaves the key with the woman holding down the front desk. She hardly glances up from the television, her eyes glued to Judge Joe Brown. Dean grabs a cup of the blackest coffee he's ever seen from a diner on the corner. As soon as he gets back to the motel where he left the Impala, he'll pack up his gear and head out; California's not getting any closer.


End file.
